


Come Hell or High Water, Blood is Thicker

by maydei



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Canonical Character Death, Consort Dean Winchester, Demon Blood Addiction, Dirty Talk, Dubious Morality, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, M/M, Public Claiming, Ritual Sex, Sam 'Boy King of Hell' Winchester, Season/Series 03, Supernatural AU: King of Hell Sam and Consort Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/pseuds/maydei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's deal is coming due, but Sam will do anything in his power to stop it. Anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Hell or High Water, Blood is Thicker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kjjija](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kjjija).



> This was written for the AO3 Auction, sponsored by my lovely bidder Kjjija. Her prompt centered around the idea of Sam embracing his destiny as the "Boy King of Hell" to prevent Dean from going to Hell. And the rest—well, you'll see.

They were running out of time.

Sam was getting edgy, unsettled. There was barely a month left, and Dean didn't seem to care at all. It was such bullshit; Sam knew he was scared, could see it in the set of his jaw and the tense line of his shoulders, could see it in the way he tossed and turned while he slept and dreamt of unimaginable horrors to come. Sam wouldn't let it happen. He couldn't let it happen. So while Dean slept, Sam was awake, sitting stone-still and silent at the edge of his bed, barely daring to breathe, lest he wake Dean from his fitful attempt at rest.

Sam was scared, too.

He'd gotten used to this. He'd gotten used to another person in the room at night, to riding in the shotgun seat, to leaning against the back bumper shoulder-to-shoulder with a beer in hand. He liked this, whatever _this_ was. He wondered if there'd ever been brothers like them before. Sam doubted it.

And that was why he was probably going to do something really stupid. Like really, _really_ stupid.

Like, _Lilith_ stupid.

He snuck out to call Ruby and she was there in a matter of minutes. He'd never know how she did it, but at the moment, he hardly cared. She was all red leather and lipstick and blonde curls and sass, and maybe she would have been exactly his type if he was into evil. Unfortunately, evil was starting to look like a viable option.

He was _not_ going to lose Dean.

“Whatever I need to do, I'll do it,” Sam said, shoving his hands into his pockets and balling them into fists. His mouth was dry and his stomach was churning, and whether or not he liked Ruby didn't factor in, because this was different. This was putting himself entirely at the mercy of a demon, putting his _trust_ in a demon, and that went against everything. It went against _Dean_ , but Sam had to promise himself it would be worth it. He had to lie. He had no idea how this would end, but he was already on the road to Hell, and good intentions were paving his way for a smooth ride. Sam couldn't say he regretted it, but he might later.

“Cutting it close, there, kiddo,” Ruby replied, scowling at him. She was pissed, naturally. Of course she was. It was too bad Sam didn't really care. “What says I want to help you?”

“You want me at your disposal and here I am. Are you gonna turn me down?” Sam asked. He stared at her hard, and Ruby stared back. “We've got a month, and you're gonna tell me how to save him. I don't care what it takes. Get me to Lilith and I'll do it.”

“Well, well,” Ruby said, badly hiding the widening of her eyes. She started to pace in a circle around him, a vulture waiting to swoop. But Sam was only playing possum. He was up for a fight if she came to peck out his liver. “Someone put on their big boy pants. It's too bad we're almost out of time.”

“Almost isn't _too late_ ,” Sam replied shortly. “I'll work hard. I'll do what I have to. But, Ruby....” He trailed off into stony silence. He swallowed and swore that she heard it. “He's not gonna die. I can't let him die.”

Maybe she pitied him. He hated that, but he would survive as long as Dean did. In the meantime, he'd do everything he could to make sure Dean did just that.

“You're not gonna like it,” Ruby said, her fingernails drumming against the leather of her sleeve. Her arms were crossed. There may or may not have been blood on her shoe; it was too dark for Sam to tell.

“You heard me,” Sam snapped. “I said I don't care what it takes. If you can't save Dean yourself, you're gonna tell me how _I_ can.”

“It'll change you.” He glared at her. After a while, Ruby finally shrugged. “All right, all right,” she said. Her eyes bled black and shiny under the flickering streetlights. She unsheathed her knife from her thigh and dragged the serrated blade across her wrist.

Sam recoiled; the smell of her blood was strong, sharp, and he could catch the scent even from here. “What—?”

“You wanna be strong enough to take on Lilith? This is what you have to do.” She wiped the blade across the wound, gathering the blood onto the steel until it was dripping and red. She held it out in his direction handle-first.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” Sam asked. He hoped he didn't have to stab himself with it, but he had the sinking feeling that would be too easy. Slowly, he approached, but didn't yet reach out to take the offered knife.

“I'm sure you know,” Ruby said. She watched him carefully, careless of the blood that spilled over her wrist and dripped to the ground. “Part of you knows. Azazel fed you demon blood when you were a baby. If you want to get stronger than Lilith, you'll need to feed.”

“Demon blood?” Sam asked in horror. He was frozen in place. He wanted to back away, his stomach churning with revulsion—or was that hunger?—but he couldn't. He'd sworn he'd do anything.

“Demon blood,” Ruby affirmed. “You drink this, you'll barely have to practice. Those psychic kids had nothing on you. Visions are one of the strongest powers out there because it's always going, not just an on-and-off thing like telepathy and persuasion. If you can learn to control your dreams, you can learn to control the rest of it. And those parlor tricks are just the start.” She gave the knife an insistent shake.

Sam stared at the blade and then at her. “What's it gonna do to me?”

“Think of this like a supernatural protein shake,” Ruby said, irritation creeping into her voice. “And if you don't drink this before it starts to dry, it's gonna be pretty gross. Or don't you want to save your brother?”

Sam snatched the knife out of her hand decisively, staring at the cerise-and-rust sheen. With one final swallow and a strong sense of foreboding, Sam's tongue lapped over the flat of the blade. His nose wrinkled at the sharp taste—and then it was like fire burst over his tongue. His gums tingled. He couldn't decide if it was deplorable or sensational, but he needed more to decide.

He licked the knife clean. Ruby's black eyes narrowed with smug satisfaction. “That's good, Sam. That's really good. You're doing the right thing. If you practice hard, there might be a chance that this could work.”

Whether or not he liked the taste, the thought of winning made Sam smile. Unbeknownst to him, his teeth were stained with blood.

 

* * *

 

Hiding his nightly routine from Dean was easier said than done, but he made it nearly three weeks before Dean finally confronted him. Sam was going nuts—if before was cutting it close, this was _insanity._ He was practically shaking in his skin, ready to fight, vibrating with energy. His mind was full to bursting with ideas and multiple trains of thought, his muscles tight with power, and his spine prickled with electricity. He was ready, he was sure.

Sam stared out the window, waiting for the sign of a flickering streetlight outside. Dean was getting ready for bed; Sam hardly paid attention. He was so used to Dean that Dean was hardly on his radar—at least until Dean grabbed him by the back of the shirt and dragged him away from the grimy window. Sam had been unprepared and was easily caught off-balance as Dean shoved him into the motel chair, standing in front of Sam with a dark look that didn't fit with his _Star Wars_ boxers and partially-ripped tee shirt.

“Start talking,” Dean commanded.

Sam stared at his brother with his best impression of perplexed innocence and hurt. Somehow, he knew it didn't quite reach his eyes. “What? Dean—”

“Don't you 'Dean' me, buddy,” Dean replied, scowling at Sam. “How stupid do you think I am? I know you better than anyone. You're up to something.” He grit his teeth, aggravated; Sam flinched. John had always done the same thing whenever Sam messed up. The action instinctively set Sam on edge—it meant he was in for it. “You're practically shaking out of your skin. You're twitchy. I've never seen you like this.” Dean stared at Sam. His jaw clenched. “So, what? Are you on drugs?”

“No!” Sam exclaimed, aghast. He spluttered, offended. “Is that what you think?”

“I don't know what to think!” Dean shouted, leaning over to grip the arms of Sam's chair, his eyes glinting some sort of green-eyed monster look as he got in Sam's face. His lips twisted into a sneer, and Sam would have lashed out if he couldn't see the concern Dean was trying to squash.

Dean knew Sam, sure—but Sam knew Dean, too.

Dean stared at him, trying to find the answer in Sam's eyes; Sam's every instinct told him to lash out, to fight, if only to get out some of this energy—but he couldn't. This was Dean. This was his brother. And he never wanted to hurt Dean. He did this _for_ Dean.

Sam looked down into his lap, his hands wringing together nervously, tugging on each of his fingers until his knuckles popped. “I'm trying to save you,” he muttered. He was still keenly aware of Dean's proximity. Even without it, Sam could smell the leather of Dean's jacket. He could smell gun oil on his brother's hands. He could smell sweat and the cinnamon of Dean's toothpaste; he could feel the heat of Dean's skin against his cheek from where his brother hovered too close.

He swore he could _hear_ the thrum of Dean's pulse. Sam wanted to bite him, just to see what would happen—but he chained that part of himself down. _I won't hurt Dean._

“Sam,” Dean breathed. His hands went to Sam's shoulders, squeezing them hard enough to bruise. He gave Sam a little shake. “What the hell did you do?”

Sam looked up—Dean was close, so close, and he looked almost _scared._ “You're gonna hate me,” Sam replied quietly. He let out a heavy sigh and turned his head away (while turning his ear in the direction of Dean's thundering heartbeat). “But I had to do it, Dean. I _had_ to.”

Dean shook him again, harder this time. “What did you do, Sam?” Dean demanded. His nails were sharp through the shoulders of Sam's faded, threadbare tee shirt. “Tell me you didn't make a deal, or I swear to _God—”_

“No!” Sam snapped, head snapping around to stare at his brother and giving him a shove to the chest. Dean's grip on Sam's shoulders kept him steady, but his expression twisted with anger and maybe a little relief. “You think after _everything_ I'd go down _that_ road? I'm not an idiot!”

Dean's eyes narrowed and his body went very still. “Yeah? So I'm an idiot for doing what I did, Sam?”

Sam tensed, every muscle ready to fight, even as his brain screamed at him to stay right where he was. He swallowed thickly. “That's not what I said, Dean.”

Impossibly, Dean got closer, towering over Sam in such a way that Sam had to crane his head back to keep his eyes on his brother. Sam could feel Dean breathe—could feel his _breath._ Dean wore a look all too familiar—the look of a Hunter. He was angry. Furious. Singularly focused. Deliberate. “I don't regret it,” Dean whispered. “I've never regretted it. This is what I do, Sam; I save you, no matter the cost. And I always will.”

“How are you supposed to save me if you go to Hell?” Sam demanded quietly.

Dean looked stricken.

“Who says I'll want a normal life after you're gone, huh?” Sam asked furiously. “Who says I won't go after every demon that's ever so much as _looked_ at us? That I won't take on every fight I can find just so I can see you there? Is that what you want?”

“Don't you dare,” Dean hissed.

Sam fisted his hands in Dean's shirt, ready to push him away. “If you die, I'm following you down. _Or_.”

“Or what?” he demanded.

“ _Or,_ ” Sam continued, glaring at his brother. “You could do the smart thing, and you could let me save you _before_ you die.”

“Sam, I already told you—”

“With or without you, Lilith wants me dead,” Sam cut in. His nostrils flared and he inhaled deeply. “But I'm ready to face her. I want you with me.”

“What do you mean _ready to face her_?” Dean demanded. He gave Sam another short, violent shake. His pupils constricted with barely-contained fury. “What did you do?”

“I've been training,” Sam replied. He twisted his fists in Dean's shirt in retaliation, tugging in an immature attempt to set him off-balance. “With Ruby.”

“ _Ruby?_ Are you _nuts?_ ” Dean demanded furiously. He shoved Sam so hard by the shoulder that the front legs of the chair lifted up for a moment. Dean wrenched away during Sam's instinctual windmilling for balance, backpedaling until there was a fairly large space between them. Quickly, Dean glanced out the window—and saw the flickering light. “Is that what you're waiting for?” He sneered at Sam. “Waiting for me to go to bed so you can sneak off? You son of a bitch.”

“Yes,” Sam admitted. He stood and clenched his fists. “Because you wouldn't let me otherwise, and I'm an adult. I can go where I want. And I can make my own decisions.”

“Yeah? Well you sound like a kid to me,” Dean snapped. He snatched his gun up off the cheap, weathered table and snapped in the clip. “You're not running off with that bitch on my watch.”

Sam laughed incredulously, anger clawing at him from the inside. “Doesn't it matter to you that I've _always_ come back?”

Dean paused. He went tense as he turned to look at Sam. “What'd she do to you?”

“She didn't do anything to me. I made my choice.” Sam swallowed. “It's probably what I would have done if I didn't have you, anyway. Just going back to what I am.”

“Which is _what?_ ” Dean demanded, jamming the gun into his waistband. “Because all I see is my little brother.”

“I'm a kid with demon blood,” Sam forced out.

Silence.

“Excuse me?” Dean's face was flushed with anger. His hands were shaking near-imperceptibly. Sam probably wouldn't have noticed if the room didn't seem so strange and bright.

“Lilith is gonna come after me with demon powers. She's strong, Dean—stronger than Azazel. I need to be stronger, and now I am.” He set his shoulders back, standing to his full height—confident. Maybe he wasn't proud of what he did for Dean's sake, but he couldn't deny that he felt better. More powerful. It felt less and less like he was stepping on a part of himself with the intent to see it break. He was more alert, more responsive in hunts—he was restless at night, but that was easily explained because he simply needed less sleep. Whereas four hours of sleep would leave him dragging and fatigued before the demon blood, four hours was more than enough in recent weeks. He ate more; from what he could tell, his metabolism had sped up, like back when he was in puberty. His resting heart rate was faster; closer to 80 rather than his usual mid-50s and low 60s. He was just... _better._ No more nightmares, no more headaches. And he was ready for Lilith.

Dean stared at Sam then like he didn't recognize him. “You mentioned demon blood.”

Sam nodded a little. He stared pleadingly at Dean. “It's helping me, Dean. I feel so much better, so much _happier._ I don't feel sick, there's no headaches, and I've saved your ass more than once since then—”

Dean closed his eyes. Sam stopped talking, watching carefully as Dean's shaking got more noticeable. Dean rubbed a hand over his face. “Demon blood is... helping you?”

“Yes,” Sam replied quietly.

“And do I want to know what that means?”

“Probably not,” Sam admitted.

“Great, that's just great. That means I have to ask,” Dean said. He rubbed at his face again before he opened his eyes and stared hard at Sam. “What does that mean?”

Only with Dean was Sam capable of feeling cowed and guilty anymore. He slouched, looking at the ground and mentally preparing himself to be hit. “I'm at a low dose. I never take much,” Sam rushed out. “Just enough.”

“Let me get this straight,” Dean growled, stalking forward. “You are _taking_ demon blood? So you _are_ on drugs, or maybe just some special kind of _crazy._ ”

“Not—not drugs. More like vitamins. I've looked at my cells, Dean—I have mutated mitochondrion, probably to process physical _and_ psychic energy. Since I started taking the blood, it's like I fed them Miracle-Gro. It's amazing,” Sam protested. “I was _made_ for this. What Azazel did to me when I was a baby—it _changed_ me.”

“That doesn't mean you have to feed this—this _sickness_!” Dean spat. He gave Sam a shove; Sam stumbled back into the door with a heavy _thump_ as his head hit the wood. “You didn't need demon blood before and you don't need it now.”

“I _did_ need it before, I just didn't _have_ it!” Sam rebounded quickly, itching for a fight. He shoved Dean back—and watched with wide eyes as Dean reeled back three, four, five steps until the backs of his legs hit the bed and he fell onto it with an equally startled expression.

Dean sat up slowly, disheveled, equal parts baffled and angry. He didn't seem to know how to react—Sam so rarely reacted physically to Dean's taunts nowadays, but he'd also displayed a surprising amount of strength. He eyed his brother warily as he smoothed his hands over his head, fixing his hair. Sam tracked his movements in return with single-minded focus, observing the shape and slide of Dean's hands, following as Dean dropped them to his side. A flicker of movement adjusted Sam's focus as he realized Dean had only licked his lips, his nervous habit. And then he spoke.

“So, what?” Dean asked. His voice was low, and Sam recognized anger—and something else. Hurt. “You become a demon, I become an only child? Is that it?”

All of Sam's boundless energy came to an uncomfortable halt. “I— _Dean—”_

Dean scrubbed his hands over his face and rubbed at his eyes with his knuckles. “I have a week left, Sam, and you're gonna do this _now?_ I'm gonna have to die knowing that I couldn't even do my job and keep you safe? How did you _expect_ me to feel about that?”

“Dean, I'm still the same person,” Sam protested weakly. He took a step toward his brother. Guilt tore at his stomach. Maybe he was wrong. “I'm just—I'm a little stronger. A little healthier. I'm what I always should have been—top of my game, no headaches, nothing. I'm still family, _your_ family....” He trailed off when he saw that Dean wasn't responding. He slumped uncertainly. “Your whole family,” he added.

“If you're messing with your blood, you're no family of mine,” Dean said. It was so tired, so exhausted and disappointed and so much like their father that Sam felt like he'd been slapped.

“Family doesn't end with blood.” he all but whispered. He felt like he might throw up. “Dean, I did this for _you._ So, _please—_ just _please._ ”

Dean looked up, resting his chin in his hand, his expression flickering when he made eye-contact. He shut the emotion down; Sam could see it. Just like always. He didn't say anything.

“I wouldn't have done it if I wasn't as close to _positive_ as I can possibly be!” Sam insisted, taking another step forward. He was pleading, it was pathetic, and he hated it—but this was all a waste if he couldn't have Dean at the end of it all. “I can _beat_ Lilith, Dean. I can _save_ you.”

“Who says I want to be saved?” Dean snapped.

Sam swallowed and crept forward the final few steps, Dean's wary gaze focused on him. Sam sat next to his brother slowly, angled toward him, locked on. Just like always. “I do,” Sam said. “And you do. I know you're scared; you told me so.” He leaned into Dean's side until they were pressed together from shoulder to hip. He wished he was small and that he could tuck himself underneath Dean's arm and hide from the world—but he couldn't. It was _his_ turn to protect _Dean_. “At least let me try, Dee.”

Sam _felt_ Dean swallow. “And what if you're wrong? What if you fail?”

“Then we'll go out together,” Sam said. He felt Dean gear up to protest and reached out to clamp his hand over Dean's mouth. Dean's muffled grunts were angry and he glared at Sam through glass-green eyes. “You don't want to live without me. I don't want to live without you,” Sam insisted. “If we're going out, we're going out _together_ , Dean. And we're going out _fighting._ ”

He pulled his hand away slowly, idly surprised that Dean hadn't tried to bite him—but Dean wasn't trying to bite him at all. His lips were parted and pink, the tiniest glint of teeth visible. He licked his lips again nervously (always nervous) before he set his jaw and morphed from soft and vulnerable to the perfect model soldier that their father had built with duct tape and dog tags. “Fine,” Dean replied snippily, and it was clear that the conversation was over. “You go get Ruby, I'll get our stuff ready so we can take off in the morning.”

Sam stared; smiled just a little until he was grinning like a fool. “Okay,” he said. Sam clambered off the bed and nearly tripped over himself as he trotted to the door.

They could do this.

They could _do_ this.

As long as they were in this together, Sam had every faith in what they could do.

Lilith wouldn't even see them coming.

 

* * *

 

They didn't leave in the morning; they left that night. Dean bitched about it, but Sam insisted he didn't need as much sleep. Sam spent at least half the drive watching his brother sleep (and that was a generously low estimate). He didn't ever want to know what it was like to be alone again.

Maybe he was sick. He had to be, right? Co-dependent, or whatever those psychologists called it. But—maybe to them, it was sick; to him, it was life. To _them,_ it was life. They grew up this way; that didn't necessarily make it right, but Sam knew enough about formative childhood psychology to know that any chance he ever had of being self-sufficient was screwed to hell. And it was clear enough that Dean was the same, right? How many guys would _sell their soul_ to save their brother? Probably not too many (and they were _wrong_ , because family was the most important thing; not money, not fame, just _family_ ).

Whatever. Right or not, it worked. Sam and Dean were one of the _only_ teams of Hunters, and even compared to the best and brightest of single and group work, their record was better. In three years they'd killed just about everything thrown their way, and they'd been pitched everything under the sun. They were _good_ Hunters.

But they were getting sloppy.

They needed some time, Sam figured. Dad was dead and gone. Sam had died already, and Dean had sold his soul and was up next on death row. They were tired and desperate and had barely been able to sleep since this whole nightmare started.

Ever since the Mystery Spot, Sam had barely been sleeping, anyway.

He'd known then that he couldn't lose Dean. He'd only told his brother the bare basics, but Dean would never know everything about that endless Tuesday. He'd never know everything about those six months when Sam broke and became their father. Because that's what he was without Dean—he was John. And he tried not to reflect too much on the fact that John's grief came from being a married man-turned-widow, while Sam had only ever lost his brother temporarily in another universe.

But family was family. It all meant the same thing. Dad would have done the same thing if it had been Sam that died that night. Of course he would've.

Sometimes Sam wished it had been him.

But that didn't matter. _Dean_ mattered. He was what this was all about.

Sam was going to save him.

The alternative was not an option.

 

* * *

 

There had been a plan. Sam remembered there being a plan. But what it came down to was Sam and Dean and Ruby going out to get lunch at a local diner and Lilith skipping in, contained in the body of a little girl in a frilly white dress—covered in blood.

The patrons stared in shock. A waitress dropped the drinks she was carrying, scattering ice and soda all over the floor.

“Hiya!” Lilith chirped. “What'd'cha do that for?”

The waitress paled.

Ruby inhaled through her teeth. Dean went rigid. Sam stared.

“I can see her face,” Dean breathed.

“Me too,” Sam replied softly, staring at the warped mass of black and rusted red and empty eye sockets and a sagging mouth filled with needle teeth. She looked like a horror movie monster, or maybe a disturbed child's nightmare.

“I—I didn't mean to—” the waitress stuttered. She was young, probably newly hired, a high school student in all likelihood. “Sweetie, are you okay?”

“I'm great!” Lilith replied, perching her hands on her hips and smiling like she'd won something. “My friends came to visit. They're over there.”

She pointed directly at them. The waitress regarded them with her huge, terrified eyes. “Okay, sweetie,” the girl replied shakily. “As long as you're okay. Um—what happened to your pretty dress?”

Lilith's face went serious. “My daddy was being mean,” she said. The waitress went very still. Lilith perked up, all smiles all over again. “Can I have a milkshake?”

“Sure thing,” the girl said quietly. “I'll bring it right on over to your table. What flavor?”

“Peanut butter!”

“We don't have—”

Lilith's eyes narrowed. “I want peanut butter.”

“Okay, yeah. Let me get on that right away,” said the girl, all but fleeing and nearly tripping over herself when Lilith chirped, “Thank you!”

And then she skipped over to them in her shiny, black shoes and slid right into the booth next to Ruby.She threw her arms around the other demon, careless of the blood that immediately soaked through Ruby's shirt. “Ooh, I missed you!” Lilith declared. She rubbed her face against Ruby, much like a _real_ child showing affection. It was disconcerting to say the least.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean growled.

Lilith looked hurt. “That's mean, Dean. You should say sorry. You hurt my feelings.”

Dean sneered. “Yeah, I'll pass.”

Lilith stared at him. “I don't think I like you,” she said. She put her elbows on the table, resting her chin in her hands. “You should be nice to me. I've been nice to you.”

“Like hell!” Dean snapped. “What about that shit at the police station? What about _that_? Because that seemed pretty friggin' far from nice to me.”

“Swears!” Lilith shrieked, hands clapping over her ears.

“Now you've done it,” Ruby hissed.

But Sam tilted his head. There was something strange about this. He'd expected Lilith to come in all guns-blazing and tearing people apart—or at least _him._ And so far, it didn't even seem like she'd noticed Sam was there.

“Lilith,” Sam started carefully. The little girl's sharp eyes latched full-focus on Sam. “Why are you here?”

The girl crossed her arms, her nose raised as if she found Sam distasteful—and he was sure she did. “Well, I win. So I can do whatever I want.”

“You want my head on a pike, Lilith,” Sam reminded her. “And my guts in a ditch. And here you are, ordering a—”

“Milkshake,” said the waitress, who had gone very pale. She placed it on the table in front of Lilith—complete with whipped cream and sprinkles.

“Ooh, thank you!” Lilith said, eagerly reaching forward to grab the glass. She gave the young waitress a wide, toothy smile. “I'm so hungry I could eat a whole person all by myself! Thank you, Miss Kathy!” Sam looked at the girl's shirt—she wasn't wearing a name tag. Apparently, Kathy realized that at the same time that Sam did, because she beat a hasty retreat.

“Is that really necessary?” Sam asked tightly.

“Dunno whatch'er talkin' about, Sammy,” Lilith said around her straw, slurping her drink and making as much noise as she possibly could, her eyes just _daring_ all the nervous and unsettled customers around them to tell her to stop. “I'mma good girl. I do what my daddy wants. But you didn't listen to _your_ daddy.” Lilith narrowed her eyes at him, the slightest snarl revealing a gap between her front teeth that might have been charming otherwise. “Shoulda listened, Sammy. 'Cause I don't wanna play nice no more.”

Ruby tensed. Sam sat up straighter, and something in Lilith's disparaging tone started a spark in him. “Then let's go,” Sam said evenly. “You against me.”

Lilith smiled. She looked at Ruby and threw her arms around her. “You did so good! Thank you _soooooo_ much!”

Sam and Dean went still. “What?” Dean asked quietly.

“You didn't guess? Silly goose!” Lilith crowed. “Ruby brought you right to me. Demons don't help humans, meanie-Deanie.”

Dean turned a dark glower on Sam. “Did you know about this?” he demanded.

But Sam had gone cold. “No,” he said quietly. “I....” He stared at Ruby, who met his blank stare evenly. Her eyes flickered down to Lilith and back to him, and Sam suddenly understood. “You betrayed me,” he said. He swallowed. He got angry. “Ruby, I _trusted_ you!”

“You see, Sam?!” Dean demanded furiously. “This is just what we get! Now we're fucked because _you_ had to go and trust that demon _whore!_ ”

Ruby grimaced, but covered it with a sneer. Sam's lip curled and he was out of the booth in a moment, Dean right behind him.

“I don't wanna play tag,” Lilith warned. Her eyes were wide, and maybe some would say innocent—but Sam could see the manic glint, a hound catching a scent, a cat ready to pounce. Most demons were something animal, but Lilith was entirely made to _hunt._ Her pupils constricted, and his did in turn. His blood thrummed.

_Fight. Fight me. Come on. I'm ready._

“Good,” Sam replied, body loose and ready to move while still remaining casual to the curious onlookers. “Neither do I.”

“Good,” Lilith echoed. She slid out of the booth and brushed off the front of her dress as if it weren't soaked with red-brown blood. “Don'tcha think it'd be easier to just let me win?” Lilith asked, blinking at him.

“Nah.” Sam said with a tiny, tense smile. He felt Dean back away from behind him. Sam kept his eyes on Lilith. “You don't want that, anyway.”

Lilith smiled like a shark, no longer a little girl as her eyes rolled back and she stalked forward. “I wanna rip your guts outta your nose.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked. He took a step back and spread his arms. “I'm all yours. You just let these people go.”

Lilith narrowed her eyes, scanning the horrified faces of the diners. “Why should I?” She demanded, petulant.

“You like games,” Sam answered. “If you don't let them go, I won't be any fun. But if you do, I'll play—and I'll play as long as you want. As long as you can keep up.” He quirked a grin that he knew would irritate her.

As expected, Lilith bristled, puffed with the presence of a very large, very _angry_ animal. “ _Get out!”_ She shrieked, fists balled tight. The patrons didn't argue—simply fled for the doors, cramming and shoving, cussing and fighting, and Sam could see the disgust on her face. “Animals,” she hissed. “Stinking bags of pus and fur.”

“Humans,” Sam replied, not nearly as hesitant in reaching for the demon-killing knife on his belt and tossing it back to his brother. He didn't need to watch to know that Dean caught it.

Lilith paused when she saw he was unarmed. Her white eyes narrowed suspiciously on Sam. “You said you were gonna play.”

“Oh, I'm playing,” Sam answered, straightening up. He held his arms wide in invitation. “Let's go. Just you and me.”

And because Lilith was prideful, she didn't question it. She only smiled and flicked her wrist to send him flying—and tried again, because Sam wasn't going anywhere. He smiled just a little before mimicking her gesture, and to Lilith's wide-eyed surprise, she was flung through the sturdy glass window. The glass grated as it hit the pavement outside. They heard the skid of a body, and Sam was quick to sprint out the door after her.

“Careful!” Ruby hissed as he passed. “You go, I'll be behind you.”

But she was delayed when Dean placed himself in her path, furious and bent on revenge for her treachery. Sam didn't have time to tell him otherwise; he just had to trust that Ruby wouldn't hurt him when she made her way to Sam.

Lilith, however, was his main concern—especially considering the furious hissing noise escaping between her teeth, so sharp it was nearly a screech. “You're a cheater!” Lilith snapped. “A big cheating cheater who cheats!”

“Nah,” Sam replied, stalking forward with one arm outstretched, taking hold of her demonic form with his will. She couldn't escape now. “There's a difference between bluffing and cheating.”

“I'm gonna pull your tongue out,” she insisted vehemently. “And your teeth. And then I'm gonna take out your eyes and eat them so Dean can see it. And then I'm gonna use your guts and your teeth to make a necklace, and I'm gonna wear it when I rip out your brother's throat!”

Sam set his jaw, experimentally testing the flex of his psychic abilities. Lilith snarled, but was contained. Sam raised his chin, straightened his shoulders—he could do this. He was going to do this.

“No, I don't think you will,” Sam answered. He bared his teeth at her and took a step forward. “Do you know what I think?”

“I don't care!”

Sam ignored her and continued. “I think you're done hurting people. All the people you want to destroy—I'm gonna save them. And I'm starting right here, right now. I'm starting with my brother. And by that, I mean I'm gonna save him by killing you.”

“No you're not,” Lilith sneered. She struggled to be free, and Sam could feel her power rebelling against his—but he was stronger. “You don't have the guts.”

Sam smiled, breathless with adrenaline. He leaned in. “Yeah?” he asked her. “I don't have the guts to kill you—to kill in cold blood? Because I gotta tell you, that might've been true...” he stepped back, straightening up and drawing up his power. “...if you hadn't threatened Dean.”

He reached out, eyes locked onto hers, and _ripped_. Sam reveled in her screeches as Lilith clawed at the pavement, gagging and hissing curses in-between breaths. Blood pounded in Sam's ears; he felt the fire from the demon blood pump through his heart. His every cell was _burning_ , and he could feel the space between himself and Lilith like it was a tangible thing, charged with energy and fury.

He ripped and tore and smothered and crushed and _pulled_ until there was light flickering behind Lilith's eyes, from beneath her skin. It was red and yellow and purple and _bright._

He wanted to see it burn out.

He wondered if this was what God felt like—awesome, powerful, vengeful. Sam wondered if there was anyone that God would kill for. If God ever felt the need for revenge. He wondered if God liked killing.

Sam had to figure that He did.

Sam tore at her with a vengeance, just to hear her scream. For Hendricksen and the cops. For Nancy. For the little girls she'd possessed. For the families she'd terrorized.

For Dean. For the brother who hadn't slept without all his clothes on in almost a year. For the brother who drank like he never would again. For the shadows under Dean's eyes ever since Sam had woken up in that nowhere-cabin. For the nights Dean had refused to talk, but had rubbed that pain-relief salve onto Sam's spine. For the recent days in the Impala when Dean wouldn't bother to put a tape in. For the man who admitted that he was scared—for the man who had given him everything, time and time and time again. It was time to give something back to him, and her pain was just the thing. For Dean. For Dean. _For Dean._

“Sam,” Dean whispered from behind him. A hand dropped onto his shoulder. “Sammy, stop. C'mon.”

“She deserves this,” Sam insisted through gritted teeth. “She deserves to die!”

“She deserves to die,” Dean agreed, circling until he stood in front of Sam, all that he could see. “She does. But not like this. Just let it be over.”

Dean still had shadows under his eyes.

Sam nodded and closed his hand into a fist. With one last choked scream, Lilith fell silent and still.

“Check the girl,” Sam said, holding Dean's gaze. He knew that Ruby would obey.

Dean smiled just a little, stepping forward until they were toe-to-toe. He gripped Sam by the shoulders, and the weight of the moment finally hit them. Sam swayed on his feet, held steady by Dean's hands, and his eyes slipped closed when he felt Dean's thumbs rub at the curves between neck and shoulders.

“Dean,” Sam sighed quietly.

At that, though, Dean stiffened and pulled back. He gave Sam a quick clap on the back before he had backed off entirely, crouching opposite Ruby and feeling the little girl's neck for a pulse.

He looked up. “She's alive.”

Sam smiled. “Awesome. Let's see if we can't find out where she's—”

And then the ground started to shake. The Winchesters were on their feet in a second; Ruby stood more slowly, even as the shaking and the roar of the earthquake grew more intense. She turned to face Sam and Dean, and her eyes were beetle-black and glinting.

“It's Hell,” she said to them, her gaze settling on Sam. “You killed the Queen.”

“I had to,” Sam replied simply, frowning at her.

“I know,” Ruby replied, and she started to smile. For some reason, it unsettled Sam—with that smile and those eyes... something wasn't quite right.

“Then, what?” Dean demanded.

“By the ancient rites of Hell,” Ruby said as if reciting something particularly significant, “and our sacred laws of combat, Sam Winchester, you have defeated our monarch. By bond and by law, that makes you our King.” Her eyes glittered with fierce satisfaction and she drew nearer. “Sam, you're the King. You won.”

“What?!” Sam spluttered. “No, Ruby—I'm not the King! I killed Lilith, that's all.”

“And by killing Lilith, you assumed her crown, which can only be taken from you by death,” Ruby replied. Her smile widened.

“You scheming Hellbitch,” Dean growled, reaching for the knife on his belt. “You knew this would happen all along, didn't you?”

“I don't see why it's such a problem!” Ruby snapped back, angry. Her eyes flickered back to brown and her smile twisted into a deep scowl. “Sam's in charge—that means he runs the show! No more demons on your ass. Isn't that what you wanted?”

“Not like this!” Dean exploded.

“Wait, wait—” Sam interrupted, still reeling at the news. “If that's true—then why didn't Dean become King when he shot Azazel?”

“Dean's human, dumbo,” Ruby answered, her vicious tone backing off to something more irritated than anything else. “He's not eligible for the crown.”

“But Sam's human!”

Ruby raised an eyebrow, looking between them and observing their confusion with something akin to sheer exasperation. “Sam, you've got _demon blood_ in you.”

Sam swallowed tightly.

“Like it or not,” Ruby continued, “you're just barely demon enough to be Hell's King, and even that only lasts as long as you drink the demon blood. If you don't, Alastair will definitely kill you.”

“Who's Alastair?” Sam asked.

“Master torturer, a real nasty piece of work. Even more vicious than Lilith.” Ruby eyed him speculatively. “Do you really want to leave the world in his hands? Do the smart thing, Sam—take the preventative measure. Take up the crown. You'll be good, and you'll be _fair._ ”

“I—” Sam fell silent, ducking his head. “This isn't what I wanted. I don't want to be King.”

“No, but you were always made to be,” Ruby replied. She shot Dean a glance and gave him an insistent gesture of the head. _Do something._

“Sam,” Dean said slowly, hesitantly. He glared at Ruby and moved to cut her out of Sam's vision. “Sam,” he said again, quietly. “Hey, look at me.”

Sam looked up; his eyes were the barest bit damp. “I'm sorry, Dean,” Sam said quietly, shame boiling in his gut. “I didn't know—I didn't—”

Dean grabbed Sam and pulled him into a strong embrace. “Hey,” Dean repeated. “Don't you apologize to me. Don't.” His hands gripped at the back of Sam's shirt. “We're gonna get through this.”

“But I don't—Dean, you won't be—”

Ruby let out an aggravated noise from behind them. “You idiot,” she huffed. “You don't have to be alone. You can do whatever you want when you're King. Dean can come too, if you're _really_ that needy.”

“Shut up,” Dean snapped. His arms tightened around his brother. “You'll be okay, Sam. You're not going anywhere without me. We'll work this out, just like always, huh?”

“Yeah,” Sam said in a rush of breath, crumbling into Dean's hold until he felt like _Dean's little brother_ for the first time in a long time.

“Hey, losers,” Ruby said, sounding more irritated than ever. “The longer you stay up here, the longer you've got Alastair down there without someone on the throne. We need to haul ass.”

Sam pulled away from Dean, using his last moment to inhale his brother's scent and take comfort in _gunpowderleathersweatearth,_ his nose skimming up Dean's throat. He could hear Dean's heavy swallow, and it made something in his brain latch onto the sound. He wanted that. He didn't know how, but he did.

“Sam,” Dean said quietly, gently pushing him back with a hand to Sam's shoulder. Sam snapped back into reality, meeting Dean's wary gaze before he turned to Ruby.

“Yeah, fine,” he said. He could still hear Dean's heartbeat in his ears. “Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

Hell was... strange. Though the supposed _struggle_ for the throne wasn't so much a struggle as Sam saying _I'm here_ and the demons kneeling for him, the position wasn't without stress. Sam was suddenly expected to know everything about Hell's politics and to make _decisions—_ to make important choices about things he'd never even heard of.

And then came the traditions.

Sam had never been particularly uptight about his masculinity, but this was a whole new level of androgyny. The demons only ever dressed him in layers of white and red fabrics, less like pants and more like robes. They brushed black paint around his lashes, braided pieces of his hair back so his bangs were secured and did not interfere with his crown. Well, maybe not a crown so much as it was a circlet—of pure iron.

Leave it to the demons to make their symbol of power a great torment. Luckily, Sam was human enough that the iron never did anything more than feel warm against his skin.

For nearly a month, he settled in. Truth be told, be barely saw Dean—but he _missed_ him. Ruby lingered at Sam's side, and Sam despaired for some time alone; at least some time with his brother. If he couldn't keep his clothes, his life, his _identity,_ then he _damn well_ needed Dean.

He was in some sort of a meeting—a demon was going on and on about traditions of the ruling class and what was expected of Sam, and he _really_ should have been paying attention, but—call it a stroke of hyperactivity, but he needed out, _now._ Without a word, he stood and marched out, intent on finding his brother.

Ruby trailed after him, protesting, but Sam tuned her out. She wasn't important right now.

“Dean!” He shouted, climbing the stairs toward where the hall where the guest rooms were kept. The stone of the castle clicked loudly under the too-high-heels of his shoes. “ _Dean!”_

“Sammy?” Dean's voice was muffled by the heavy door that sealed the room. Sam's palms lay over it, searching for something, _anything_ to open it with.

“Dean, I'm here! Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, just—fuckers have me locked in here!”

Sam turned to face Ruby as he heard her approach, baring his teeth. “Open this door.”

“Sam—”

“Open it!” he demanded.

With an aggravated sigh and a roll of her eyes, the door opened with a flick of Ruby's wrist—telekinesis, of course. Sam should have thought of that. Still, he didn't waste any time to take two long steps through and pull Dean into a hug before—

“Sammy, what the hell are you wearing?”

Sam balked, especially when he saw the smear of black paint on Dean's cheek from where Sam had pressed his face. “I, uh...”

“You look like a friggin' geisha princess,” Dean said disbelievingly, his mouth open the slightest bit as he took in the full sight of his brother. “Who the fuck decided to put you in a dress and heels? Please tell me this wasn't your idea.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam said, feeling his cheeks go hot. Of course it hadn't been his idea. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine now,” Dean replied irritably, glaring at Ruby who lingered in the doorway. “You just gonna lock me up in here all week?”

“We have important procedures to go through,” she sniffed in reply. “This is the only way to keep you out of trouble—or to keep you from getting yourself skinned.”

“We—there's no _we_ about this,” Sam said with a scowl. “I've been sitting in a room, getting talked at by a bunch of demons about shit _I don't care about._ ” He placed himself at Dean's side.

Ruby stared at him, her face gone slack—and then _furious_. “Were you not listening to a _word_ they just said to you?”

“No, I wasn't!” Sam snapped. “Because I don't _care!_ ”

Ruby gaped at him. Her hands settled firmly on her hips. “Well, maybe you would _care_ if I told you that what you just tuned out—what they just tried to spend an hour _telling you—_ is that you can't sit the throne alone. You need a consort.”

Sam went very still.

“Consort, what?” Dean demanded. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sam worked his jaw soundlessly. His body had gone cold with horror. “I can't take a _consort,_ ” he choked out. “I don't _know_ anyone!”

“Well, you need to,” Ruby said, lifting her chin. “Azazel had a consort once—that's how he got Meg. Even Lilith had a consort, but that was before she was locked away in the deepest Pit in Hell.”

“I can't!” Sam exclaimed, panic-stricken. His heart was about to beat out of his chest. “I take a consort—that's for _life._ I can't get—get— _Hell-married!_ ”

“How long does he have to choose?” Dean demanded, ever the (angry) voice of reason.

“Now,” replied Ruby. She scowled at Sam. “We've been trying to tell you. If you don't choose someone _today_ , you forfeit the throne to Alastair.”

“But I can't—”

“Sam,” Ruby said, approaching him slowly with a tiny smile. “I can help you. I know Hell's politics. I know how all of this works. You don't need to fall in with a stranger, okay? It'll be fine.”

“Yeah, in your _dreams_ ,” Dean snarled, taking a step in front of Sam. “There's no way you're getting your claws into him. You just want the title. You don't give two shits about my brother.”

“And who would you suggest?” Ruby demanded (Dean noted that she didn't deny not caring for Sam. He nearly snarled. Sam deserved so much better than she could give).

“If you're gonna stick my brother with anyone, you might as well stick him with me,” Dean snapped.

The room went silent.

Ruby choked, her eyes flashing black and huge and stunned. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“Why? Can't be the first time you sons of bitches shacked up with your family. Besides, Sam and I already eat together, live together, sleep in the same room—doesn't change anything. Just more of the same.” Dean narrowed his eyes at the demon. Despite his strong stance, though, Sam could see the minute trembling in his shoulders.

He wasn't the only one shaking.

Dean? Marry _him?_ Despite the majority of Sam's mind saying _what?_ , there was a tiny, victorious voice screaming _yes!_

He was losing it. Had to be. That was the only rational explanation as to why he was suddenly thinking _Hell-marrying his brother_ was a good idea _._

And yet...

Sam was only half-aware of Ruby staring at them and Dean staying silent, apparently waiting for Sam's input. He wasn't sure what input he could give. Despite Dean's assurances to the contrary, taking Dean as his consort would change _everything_.

But as he thought back to the past few weeks and months and, hell, even _years,_ Sam realized that... maybe this was kind of inevitable. There was always gravity between them, always something just... _more._ They'd never talked about it, but it had always lived silently in the glances they took at each other when the other _knew_ they were looking; those long stretches of quiet peacefulness in the Impala; the way they slept always facing each other from the opposite bed, always keeping eye-contact until they fell asleep. The way they _lost it_ at the thought of losing each other.

Maybe they needed this. Maybe this was _right._

And besides, Sam really, _really_ didn't want to Hell-marry Ruby.

“Dean's got a point,” Sam managed to force out, quiet and tentative and completely not even talking about all the _other_ points his mind had just supplied him with. Dean's point was a good point. _A good starting point._

Ruby stared between them, her mouth hanging open. “Oh my _god_ ,” she said, “you two are _so_ much more fucked up than I _ever_ imagined.”

Dean went rigid immediately, defensive from the first moment he started, “It's not like that—”

“The ceremony includes fucking,” Ruby cut in, still caught up on staring. “In public. _The claim of the Consort must be made for the Subjects to behold._ ”

Dean made a strangled noise.

The tentative warmth that had started in Sam's chest fanned into a flame.

But he knew Dean wouldn't speak first. He knew Dean wouldn't know what to say. But Sam had to keep it cool, to not freak Dean out—somehow.

“So?” he asked, like it was no big deal. No big deal at all. Like fucking his brother in front of an audience was no problem.

Dean whirled on him, but couldn't seem to find the words as his mouth worked open and shut, open and shut again. “Sammy—”

“Dean,” he said quietly, reaching out to lay a hand on his brother's shoulder, trying not to feel too hurt when Dean flinched. “If I'm going to have someone near me when I sleep, it needs to be someone I can trust. I don't have time to find someone else, and there's no one I trust more than I trust you.”

“We're brothers,” Dean said. “It isn't right.

“Neither are credit card scams, Dean. Neither is killing. Nothing we _do_ is right. We're one big bundle of _wrong._ But if I can keep you safe, Dean... there's nothing I wouldn't do for you,” Sam confessed, his eyes flicking to Dean's lips and back. From the clench of Dean's jaw, Sam knew that he noticed. “We can do it the once, and if you never want to, we'll never have to do it again.” Sam squeezed Dean's shoulder, every atom of him _praying_ that Dean might change his mind.

“If _I_ never want to? What about _you?_ ” Dean demanded.

Sam ducked his head. “I'm the King of Hell. No matter _what_ our relationship is, it's the least of my worries right now.” When he glanced up through his lashes, Dean still looked conflicted. Sick with anxiety, Sam dropped his voice to barely a breath. “Dee, please.”

Dean grit his teeth, but offered the barest of nods. “Alright, fine.”

Sam smiled wide and true and _happy_ ; couldn't help himself when he cupped Dean's cheeks and kissed him. He couldn't deny the fire in his chest and so let it consume him, let himself lap at the seam of Dean's lips until Dean parted them for him. He dipped his tongue into Dean's mouth just long enough to get Dean's taste, nibbled at his full lower lip as he pulled back. His smile hurt his cheeks, even as Dean stared at him, slack-jawed and pink-cheeked, lips just starting to darken with blood, shiny with spit.

“Ugh,” Ruby said from the doorway, her lip curled in a sneer. She darted into the room and grabbed Sam by the wrist, dragging him toward the door. “Come on, Good King Wenceslas, we need you to arrange this ceremony and put out the good word.”

“Can't he—?” Sam started.

“ _No,_ ” Ruby insisted. “Not only will you get nothing done with your _mooning_ , but Dean-o here needs to be collected and outfitted appropriately. You'll see him soon enough.”

Dean still looked appropriately flabbergasted. For once, the events of the day had escalated so quickly that he wasn't even on the same level anymore.

“Don't wait up!” Ruby called behind them as she dragged Sam back toward the council chambers.

Dean stared after them and wondered what, exactly, the _fuck_ just happened.

 

* * *

 

He wasn't allowed to see Dean until the Claiming Ceremony—which, either luckily or unluckily, would only be the next day. Sam was nervous, pacing, wondering if his exuberance had damaged things between he and Dean; if Dean might not want him anymore. He shouldn't have kissed his brother before the ceremony.

Now Dean _had_ to know.

It wasn't like Sam had intended to kiss him. It'd just... _happened._ One minute. Dean was agreeing to get Hell-married, and the next, Sam had his tongue in his big brother's mouth. It wasn't exactly subtle; wasn't the direction he was aiming for when he'd imagined _easing_ their way into this.

Of course, he'd had to go and blow it.

But as slow as the time seemed to pass now that Sam was full of anxious energy, the time _did_ pass.

Everything was a blur up until the moment that Ruby directed him out into the open with a crowd of demons gathered to observe, with the dull red light and the _heat_. Dean stood at what almost looked like an altar, looking distinctly uncomfortable in the sheer clothing he'd been dressed in—a device quite like a corset that cinched his already-slender waist, rich crimson to match the thin pants that were barely decent, long and flowing and bound at his ankles, held together with laces that only barely hid his dick from full-view.

Sam's mouth went dry. Dean looked antsy and uncomfortable; _beautiful._

“I did not sign up for this,” Dean hissed as Sam drew closer. “I look like a whore.”

“You're a consort,” Ruby said loftily as she passed.

“Consort, not _courtesan!_ ” Dean snapped after her. He turned his gaze to Sam and set his jaw. “Sam, are you sure we have to—”

“We have to,” Sam answered. He reached out to lay his hands on Dean's bare shoulders, tugging him a step closer before his hands slipped from Dean's shoulders to his arms to his wrists, to tangle with his fingers. He took in the sight before he looked back up at his brother. “But only if you want to do this.”

Dean glanced toward Ruby, his eyes narrowing. “I want to do this,” he said, matching Sam's stare. His hands tightened around Sam's. “You've always been mine, Sam. Ever since Dad put you in my arms and told me to take you outside as fast as I could. He could have carried us both, but he didn't. He gave you to me. And he never really asked for me to give you back.”

Dean took in a deep breath and raised his chin, set his shoulders. He looked strong, now; more sure of himself. “I don't know what the hell I'm doing right now. But all I know is that I've done crazier stuff to keep you safe than _this.”_

“Crazier than being dressed up as a consort and getting married to your brother?” Sam asked, quietly amused, his eyes half-lidded with subtle, lazy arousal. As odd as it was to see Dean out of his usual denim-plaid-leather, this was a good look for him.

“Shut up,” Dean answered. His eyes flickered to the crowd of demons. “So how do we do this?”

“I think we just... do,” Sam replied. He raised his voice, looking toward his subjects. “I claim this man as my Consort, for now and for always. Does anyone contest my claim?”

He bared his teeth. No one said a word.

“Then I'm claiming him,” Sam said, abruptly circling his arms around Dean's narrow hips and lifting him to sit on the edge of the altar. He stepped into the space his brother's splayed bow-legs left, curling on hand around Dean's calf and guiding it to hitch around his hip.

Dean flushed, mouth open to say something that Sam didn't have the patience to argue about. Instead, he let the roar of the demon blood in his ears (and the possessiveness that came with _his_ brother being seen by _others_ ) guide him. He wasted no time in sucking Dean's tongue into his mouth and pressing the heel of his hand against the laces that hid Dean's half-hard cock.

Dean hissed, his teeth clenching and accidentally biting down on Sam's lip. Sam wasn't deterred, his fingers slipping into the ties and pulling them apart so he could get to Dean's flesh. He wanted to make this good. He wanted to make Dean _want_ him, want _this._

He wanted Dean to want it more than just once.

“Fuck,” Dean muttered, his hips bucking up into Sam's touch. “ _Fuck_.”

“That's the spirit,” Sam replied with a quirk of a grin, wrapping his hand around the length of Dean's cock and giving it a few slow pumps. He broke away from Dean's lips to mouth at the column of his neck, intent on leaving bright bruises, individual claiming marks that would scream _mine_.

“How the _fuck_ do you know how to— _ah,_ ” Dean grit out.

“In case you hadn't noticed,” Sam replied, moving his hand in favor of grinding his hips forward. “I have a dick too, jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean retorted instinctively.

Sam grinned and nipped at Dean's earlobe. “Yeah, we'll see about that, sweetheart.”

He pulled Dean's hips closer to the edge of the table, grinding against him with a blissful groan as he worked Dean's corset down enough to roll his nipple between his fingers. Dean bit Sam's shoulder in response, careless of the mouthful of fabric that came along with it. Meanwhile, he worked his hands into the front of Sam's many layers, grateful that they more or less all seemed to button down the front. It wasn't until he had his hands gripping at Sam's ribcage that he released his bite—even then, just in favor of tempting Sam back into a kiss and digging his fingernails into the dips between Sam's ribs.

Sam's breath hitched; Dean grinned in response. “Yeah, I thought so,” he murmured. He nursed at the bite on Sam's lip, sucking the vague tang of Sam's blood away. “Gonna fuck me, Sammy? Wanna?”

“Yeah,” Sam panted.

“Gonna let all these bitches watch as you fill me up?” Dean asked, growling low and filthy against Sam's throat. “Let them see you fuck your big brother?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Sam moaned. He gripped Dean's hips _hard,_ knew he was sure to leave bruises on all that skin.

“Fuckin' dirty, you know that? How bad you wanna get your dick inside me.” Dean sucked at Sam's jugular, humming when he felt Sam's pounding pulse against his tongue. “Thought I was nuts, Sammy. Thought it was just me.”

Sam tore at Dean's pants and worked them over his hips, dipping his fingers into the shallow bowl of oil that waited on the altar and slipping them down, down, down. “You want me?”

“Yeah, Sammy, always have,” Dean moaned. Sam echoed the sound when his fingers found Dean's hole, tight and pink and _god_ , Sam wanted him so bad. He rubbed little circles around the rim, little loops with the edge of his fingernail, drinking in the sound of Dean's gasps and hisses, watching the helpless twitching of Dean's cock with his blown-black pupils.

“You want that?” Sam asked quietly.

“Fuck, Sam— _god_ , just fuckin' put your fingers in me before I kick your ass.”

Sam worked the first finger in slowly, just the tip at first in shallow little thrusts, then _pushed_ until the pad of his finger and the ridges of his knuckles bumped against Dean's walls, impossibly tight and slick. He barely waited until he added another—he really needed to get this show on the road if he wanted to even get _inside_ of Dean before he blew his load, especially with the way Dean was running his mouth.

“ _God_ , yeah, Sammy, so fuckin' good, stretch me all out for your cock, baby boy, _yeah_ , that's right—”

Yeah, Dean _really_ needed to stop talking. It was all Sam could do to get his other hand steady enough to slide his fingers between Dean's lips and keep him quiet. Only the slightest sliver of green was left in Dean's eyes before they went dazed and far-off and he sucked and lapped at Sam's hand like it was his job.

Three fingers now. Sam had pulled out for the barest moment to slather his fingers in oil again, and Dean had made this _whining_ noise that went straight to Sam's cock. Fuck, but he couldn't wait to get inside Dean, so fucking hot and slippery and wet—

Fuck it.

He didn't care as he tore a few buttons off his shirt in his frenzy to free himself. This many layers was stupid anyway. Apparently Dean agreed, considering that he snapped out of his bleary-eyed haze of arousal so he could assist.

And then Sam was free and slicking himself up with oil and precome and sliding inside and _dear Jesus fucking Christ and mother of all that is holy._ Around them, Sam could hear the demons chatter with approval, but he didn't care. This was his moment, his and Dean's moment, and the rest of them could fuck right the fuck off.

“Christ,” Sam panted, ducking his face into the crook of Dean's neck. He lapped at the salt of Dean's sweat, each heaving breath shuddering out as a moan from the sensation of Dean clenched around his cock. “Fuck, _Dean_.”

Dean stroked at Sam's hair with shaky fingers. “So good, baby boy,” he muttered into Sam's ear, nipping at the shell. “Fuckin' splitting me open, Sammy, so _good_.”

“Can I—”

“Yeah. Fuck yes,” Dean hissed.

The first thrust was nearly agony, Dean's body clenched so hard around him that Sam had to fight to pull away, but it was worth it for the long, shaky whine that surfaced when he pushed _deep_ into Dean's superheated body. After that, Sam could even _imagine_ going slow. He fucked Dean with all the strength he could muster, shoved his way into Dean's body again and again and again with Dean's heels digging into his ass, egging him on with curses and whispers and blasphemy.

“Yeah, sweetheart, that's so fucking good. Fuck me nice and hard, let's show these demon scum what the Winchesters are fuckin' made of. _God, Sammy_ , oh fuck, fuckfuck _fuck_ that's it baby boy, right there, oh _God_ Sammy, oh, _oh, SamSamSamSammy fuck, FUCK, SAM—”_

Dean shuddered and keened and writhed on Sam's dick, clawing at Sam's exposed chest as his hips bucked and his cock spurted messy and wet between them. Sam went _nuts_ , fucking Dean through his orgasm in a frenzy, biting down _hard_ on the side of his neck, his arms wrapped tight around Dean's waist and _pulling_ him onto Sam's cock.

His body went rigid as he came, moaning helplessly into Dean's skin as he rode out the aftershocks, tiny little circles of his hips as he ground himself deeper and deeper into Dean's body, hoped it would take _hours_ for his come to work its way back out and by then he could have Dean sprawled out on his bed so he could fuck him again—

Dean pulled him into a kiss, sloppy and uncoordinated and most of all, exhausted. Sam knew his hair had to be fucked up six ways from Sunday, but he couldn't care less. Instead, he offered Dean a drowsy smile as he pulled the circlet of iron off his own head and plopped it right on down on Dean's, instead.

“Love you,” Sam murmured, nosing comfortably back into Dean's neck, simply content to wait and keep his cock coddled inside his brother as long as he could. “Want you, Dean. Always want you. 'M so glad 's you.”

“I'm glad it's me, too, Sammy,” Dean replied, hooking his arms around his brother under the gaping mess of Sam's layered clothing, nuzzling his face into Sam's hair.

They didn't notice as Ruby shooed the demons away. They didn't notice as she took her own leave. They didn't notice anything.

Anything but each other.

 

* * *

 

 

Time passed differently in Hell, but Sam and Dean just kind of... floated through. They were uncontested, even by Alastair, and their regime remained unchanged from Sam's ideals.

Sam himself was in charge of politics and a liaison with—he could hardly believe it— _Heaven_ , and an archangel named Michael who looked at Sam like he wasn't sure whether to shake his hand or smite him. Sam didn't care too much about that; he knew he had Michael's balls in a vise from the moment he told the angel that he _knew_ about the Cage (how could he not? It wasn't far from the castle. And something had _drawn_ him there—finding the fallen angel Lucifer hadn't been on Sam's list of _things to do while ruling Hell,_ but he could hardly complain so long as Lucifer remained locked up).

Dean, however, preferred battle. Sam had banned all unauthorized demons from the surface, but he had to keep them busy _somehow—_ and letting Dean train them up seemed the easiest way to keep them under his thumb, especially when Dean came into possession of the demon-killing knife ( _a wedding present,_ Ruby had said with a roll of her eyes). He cut down the unworthy and the rebellious without so much as a second thought.

Sam, for all that he worked within the laws of Hell (this wasn't what he had in mind when he'd started law school, he had to admit), still had to remain strong—and for him, that meant drinking demon blood. Lots of it. It made Dean... edgy, in a word. Sam noticed the way he got tense and quiet when he saw Sam come to the room with blood at the corner of his mouth. It seemed to bother Dean more than it should, considering they'd been at this nearly a decade.

And what a glorious decade it had been.

Sam smiled to himself as he lay on their bed, body thrumming with power from his latest dose of demon blood. His eyes were closed, but he was listening intently, knowing it was only a matter of time until—

Weight landed on him, and Sam's eyes snapped open as he flipped Dean over onto his back and pinned his arms by his sides. Dean's smile was bright and smug, and Sam lowered his mouth to darken the bruise he'd kept fresh for months and years. His brother squirmed underneath him, but Sam didn't let him up quite yet.

But then Dean went still, touched a finger to Sam's lip, and stared at the red that stained the pad of his finger. Sam pulled back to look at it, then at Dean.

“You know I need it,” Sam said quietly, still pinning Dean in place with his body.

Dean said nothing at first, just stared at the red until he met Sam's eyes. “I don't understand why you won't let me—”

“Because I love you,” Sam insisted quietly. He rubbed his lips across Dean's jaw. “Just like this. Just the way you are. If you turn, I'm afraid it won't be _you._ ”

“It'd be me,” Dean replied, frustrated. “Sam, I don't like all these other demons leading you around by the teeth!”

“Better that than losing you,” Sam said, lowering his body until they were pressed together, his face tucked into Dean's neck. The words had an air of finality about them, but he knew that he and Dean would continue to bicker about it.

But Sam wasn't about to let Dean become a demon because he was _jealous_ of the demons Sam was draining.

“How's the army?” He asked.

“They're coming along,” Dean answered. “Still stupid, though. Still got egos the size of Chuck Norris' balls.”

Sam made a noise of disgust, but laughed through it. Dean punched him in the shoulder before Sam rolled them over again, leaving Dean sprawled over Sam's torso. He stole a quick, slow kiss that Sam happily reciprocated—and then bit Sam's lip and rolled to the side.

“Ow!” Sam complained.

“Don't whine, it's not hot at all,” Dean replied easily, fidgeting until he was comfortable on his side, facing Sam. His hand reached over to rest on Sam's waist—finally, Sam was able to convince Hell to let him wear his own shirts sometimes. They still insisted on the eyeliner and the hair stuff, but what could he do? It was better than wearing a dress.

Sam scooted into Dean's space, slinging his arm over Dean's hip. He was lazy, comfortable, and best of all, he was content.

Hell wasn't so bad once he'd gotten used to it, really. And it came with some great perks.

“Later, you're gonna take me over to see the troops,” Sam said drowsily into the space between them. “And you and me are gonna tag-team 'em. And then we'll come back and have a bath until you're all relaxed and blissed out, and I'm gonna fuck you all night.”

“Don't make promises you can't keep,” Dean replied with a lazy smile.

“Oh, I'll keep it,” Sam said, matching Dean's grin before he smothered it out with his own. “I keep my promises.”

Dean snatched the iron circlet off of Sam's head, pulled off his own—tarnished silver braided with iron and gems that grew in Hell's volcanoes; a beautiful piece of art that Dean complained about more often than not, but wore with pride—and he tossed them together onto the outcropping of rock that served as their bedside table. They settled together with the demon-killing knife, powerful and beautiful and marking this room as _home_.

“Take me up to the surface,” Dean said into Sam's mouth. “Tomorrow. You're gonna take me up and I'm gonna drive us all over, and we can visit Bobby and see how much trouble we can get into in that guest room without him noticing. How about that?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Sam agreed.

“Promise me, Sam,” Dean insisted. “I need to drive Baby, help her let her hair down and have some fun. And I need some _Zepp_ back in my life.”

“I promise.” Sam smiled, curling his hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulling him back in.

It wasn't always easy, being the King and King's Consort of Hell.

“Let's not tell Bobby about the job we found, alright?”

“Deal.”

But it was well worth the fight.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
